


Blue Moon

by MadameBizarre



Category: Darkwing Duck (Cartoon 1991)
Genre: Gender-neutral Reader, Other, Prompt: body rocking, Reader-Insert
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-10
Updated: 2019-05-10
Packaged: 2020-02-29 11:28:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,266
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18777376
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MadameBizarre/pseuds/MadameBizarre
Summary: You joined Steelbeak for a wild weekend in Vegas like a celebrity pair of vintage Hollywood, and it seems like it'll never end, but you aren't complaining....too much anyways.





	Blue Moon

**Author's Note:**

> **NOTE:** Steelbeak is the kind of guy who calls everyone and anyone Doll, babe, sweet stuff, etc pet names of any sort. He’s just a self-absorbed like that, we’re all merely his arm candy.  
> Please Comment & Kudos so I can be fueled emotionally to write more and for other characters. Some spare change also helps out too [Kofi](https://ko-fi.com/A24043RO)
> 
> Not beta'd, looked over maybe twice in-between days. Anything that needs fixing just tell me, I very much feel like I'm to biased to one gender when it's supposed be either or that fits your liking. I want everyone to feel good reading ♡♡♡

      In the background Sinatra croons “ _Blue Moon_ ” from the stereo. There is a faint crackle in the sound, adding to the surreal mood that overcomes you. Outside beyond the window are the glittering lights of Las Vegas. In the night you can barely make out the small figures of people in dresses and fancy suits as they go up and down the streets where long limos and cars are locked in traffic. The hotel is not far enough to spare your eyes the intense glow that bathes everyone below, so you squint a little as you stare towards each loud sign competing for customers. The room is refreshing, but just watching everyone outside in the humid weather stroll to their next casino and bar makes you uncomfortably warm. Raising a hand to rub at your neck as though sweat is running down it (there isn’t) you continue to be in awe: Vegas was as Sinatra, Martin, and Davis Jr. Sung it to be; you’d mention Lawford and Bishop in that pack, but the only voices singing in your head are those three -- specifically Ol’ Blue Eyes.

You’ve been in Sin City for what you can only guess to be three days -- you can not be too sure with the exciting buzz you’ve been high off since first landing. The hours melted into days as you jumped from one to bar to the next then one casino to perhaps ten others. You can’t remember what poker table came first or which late show was the latest and to be honest it never mattered. You are only aware that _he_ was there -- _with you_ \-- at every stop, seat, and table never without his arm from around your waist as he lead you to his favorite spots. Tall, broad shouldered, metal nosed Steelbeak in his all his expensive Sy Devore tailored suit glory. You can remember that so vividly, being the highlight of the whole experience; now if only you could remember _how_ you ended up in his arms in the first place…

Again, it doesn’t matter, you think as your reflection comes into focus over all the hubbub below.

Damn did you reek of cigars and alcohol when you finally woke up from your party stupor. Your feet were sore, muscles aching, and head swaying as you dragged yourself into the shower an hour ago. An absolute mess that needed to clean up before Steelbeak got back, the only pleasant parts of your disheveled appearance were the fading red marks all over your neck and shoulders that set your skin tingling. Smugly you had washed up and brushed out the taste of ash and bitterness from your tongue, and now here you are, in a fresh outfit that he bought for you -- one of the many, you smile.  

 _“Only the best for my arm candy.”_ His voice echoes in your head.

Perhaps a premonition, because next thing you know the man himself is reflected in the window. Your smile grows as his shuts the door and makes a stop at the bar in your room; a whole one, counter and stools included.

“Good to see you up and bright eyed, babe.” He pours himself a glass of scotch. “Or as bright eyed as you can be after all the partying we did.”

Of course he doesn’t pour you one, but whatever, you’ve had enough to drink for a lifetime by now.

He’s behind you soon enough, sipping from his drink as though it were his first one since arriving in Vegas. Just like the days and nights before, his free arm wraps around you waist until his hand is holding your opposite hip. He doesn’t bother taking a step forward to have you against him, the grip he has on you does it for him, pulling _you_ into his chest instead. When he bows his head so his lips are by your ear, dangerously so with solid and sharp metal cold near your skin, Steelbeak takes another sip. You hear it go down his throat and you feel the little points under you flesh prickle.

With the glass in hand, he aims his finger somewhere off in the distance that is Las Vegas. “You see that swanky limo over there?”

Taking a moment, you see what he means. “The white one with gold details?” You lean comfortably back into his strong chest, lifting and turning your chin just a smidgen so your lips nearly brush his.

“In about five hours it’s gonna take us to the highest tower where On the tippity-top of it a buddy of mine is having a shindig. Jacuzzi, all you can eat buffet, drinks pouring down on us like Niagara falls, you name it -- you better go get dolled up to the nines.”

Another night out? More heavy, fancy clothing to put on? How is this man still alive after the frenzy that were the past few days? You were still hurting all over and ready for much needed detoxing with water.

“Now don’t make that face, you signed up for this.” He leans over to his empty glass down. You definitely had, and knowingly too, because you had agreed to join him -- a contract when it came to Steelbeak’s invitations.

“Listen, I”ll even help you out, make you feel all good before I go get cleaned up.” Your throat fills his empty hand -- fingers so thick and long they meet easily at the nape of your neck. Instinctively you gasp though his grip isn’t strong -- _yet_.

There is another tug at your waist and you trust to let your bottom fall back, supported by his frame, and its then you feel the bulge press upwards on your ass.

Fuck, shit, that wasn’t there a second ago...then again, you weren’t practically on his lap a moment ago. With a wiggle of your hips the bulge shape and the fabric of what you're wearing presses into the valley between your ass. You don’t need to imagine what he’s packing under those slacks, the memories are ripe in that moment to remind you; on one more than one occasion your hand had been buried there under tables, your lips had been wrapped around it when his fingers had beckoned you down, and most of all you had locked it in place deep inside yourself as he hauled you over to a dark corner where your flushed face could not be seen. You know his cock so well you could draw it with your eyes closed.

“Rock against me, sweet stuff.” He gives _hard_ thrust to get you started. Then his hand tightens, making it difficult to take in a whole breath of air. “And you better be _singing_.”

You bite the corner of you bottom lip and do your best to nod. He barely puts any effort into it, instead you're the own rolling your ass up and down his erection, only assisted in swaying your combined hips, back and forth in the most laziest fashion. His arm is heavy on you in no time, keeping you anchored to not only his body but reality as the fog of pleasure clouds your mind. Earlier it was refreshing and cool in the room compared to the Vega strip below, but now it’s just as hot, if not more as your blood becomes lava that pours down your veins with hot lust.

Soon the rocking becomes frenzied because you’re so lost in his large form behind you, and you even place a hand on his arm -- of course not needed with his strength keeping you up. Your other hand _SLAMS_ into the window, bringing your attention to the reflection of the two of you. Your face is a heated mess, but so is his and you realize he’s been watching the performance this whole time (more on himself than you no doubt). The city lights that blink and roll, signs and buildings that echo over your image, and suddenly you’re overcome with that surreal emotion again.

You’re there in Las Vegas with Steelbeak, and it seems like you’ll never leave his side in the whirlwind of slots, tables, and theaters that is the city that never sleeps.

Fingers brush over the bare skin that is the beginning of your pelvis. They slip between the crevices of your thighs and fall of your abdomen, teetering dangerously close to where you want them the most. Your knees and thighs press together to create delicious friction, multiplied by your hips rutting against a solid person. It dawns on you that anyone can see and that makes you choke on what air Steelbeak is letting you take in.

In a frenzy the rocking becomes plain and simple dry-humping as he bends the both of you forward -- your hand becoming a forearm against the glass. He’s doing a lot more work now, but obviously it’s for his own pleasure thats coming to an end soon. You’re not far behind your lover and greedily you tilt your head and raise your shoulder under the arm holding your throat in place. He obliges by easily moving his palm up under your jaw -- pressing down to continue blocking your breathing -- and extends his thumb for you take between your lips. You bite down on it, bringing out a hiss from him in response. It sends thrills through your chest, heart beating so fast you hear it in your ears like a drumming march. You can barely breath, panting and almost wheezing, fogging the glass where your reflection is; its hot, so damn hot that sweat beads on your brow and makes it even more difficult to inhale. And the at your pelvis, not so much of a massage as an absent press and lift of his large hand against your skin -- pulling and tugging it like an imitation of stroking -- he is creating a tight ache that coils at you desire. You whine, but it is shaky like a sob, desperate for a sweet release or atleast _one_ wash over with his hand that has only ever done wicked deeds; you know he’s tough, you’ve seen him brake faces and bloody his knuckle despite doing everything he can to avoid getting dirty. The lascivious thoughts which fill your head, the cruel rocking of your bodies forward and backward with an audible thump where his thick erection pounds into you ass. You’re positively melting and bubbling over the hot pot that is euphoria.

With one finally push up against your aching ass you know he’s done, tightening all his holds over you so you’re both tightly packed against one another. He’s everywhere now, you can smell the scotch on his breath, his silky cologne you always follow like a bee to a flower, his chest rising and falling against your back. You meld into him like molten lava into a steel pot; and despite knowing he’s an ass who only ever loves himself and totes you around like a fancy accessory only he can have, you feel comfortable, steady, lost in what could one day be a safe embrace that perhaps can be common and never ending.

Whether or not it was on purpose (he _did_ say he was trying to make _you_ feel good) or not, Steelbeak’s large fingers are finally on you. Touching you where the stinging need was the worst. It isn’t much, quick with his hand around your shape, enforced by his thumb pressing down just right in pressure and position, you’re sent over the edge, locking his hand after it had gone between your thighs. You shiver, squeeze your legs harder around his fingers, pretty much sit on his lap as your knees give out for a second, and every muscle in you spasms. You cry out like a hurt creature, and your body finally shudders in a true sob. It felt so good to finally feel the release of tension between your thighs -- a sharp piercing of ecstasy that fucked your core up over the edge. It was mainly all your doing, but damned be his handsome charm that the mere thought of sends you into a horny fit. Absolutely weak of you, though you don’t care. It doesn’t matter, you get to have him as _your own_ arm candy  to ease your desires -- it’s a two-way street, babe.

As you both slump forward on the window in the aftermath, you watch the glass further fog over with his additional panting, and the lights become blurry.

He removes his finger from your mouth and throat to instead take his drinking glass once more, then releases your waist and pulls his the hand from between your thighs so you are now leaning against the window as your sole support.

“You see -- what’d I say, now you’re feeling good all over.” Steelbeak lifts his hand --still warm from being squeezed by you-- to his lips  to give each digit a quick swipe of his tongue.

“Too bad I didn’t touch up those hickeys on your neck, but there’ll be time later at the party.”

Looking to the clock you see there is now only four hours until then, but your legs feel too much like jelly to move from the spot. It also appears ‘Ol blue eyes is still singing, albeit he’s singing “ _Witchcraft”_ now.

You then look back to Steelbeak who is at the bathroom door removing his jacket. “Now go pick out an outfit, and _don’t_ keep my waiting, dollface.”

But how can you not when _he’s_ the one about to take more time than you getting ready.


End file.
